


And Thus Begins Your Epilogue

by VisualSnow



Category: Sanders Sides, Thomas Sanders
Genre: M/M, ghost!Logan, ghost!roman, graphic depictions of ghosts, medium!virgil, patton owns a bakery, psychic!patton, roman and logan are just dead, virgil is a tired college student
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-05-28 16:12:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15052985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VisualSnow/pseuds/VisualSnow
Summary: ever since the fateful day he found his mother’s body, Virgil has been able to interact with ghosts. His newfound sight gives him nothing but strife, so as the years go on he hides his abilities and ignores the ghosts around him. He lives normally until he moves into his new apartment and finds it's already occupied by some unexpected, incorporeal roommates.





	1. Catalyst

**Author's Note:**

> welcome, ladies lords and nonbinary royalty, to my ghost au! if you like it (or hate it) let me know in the comments or at my tumblr my-darkstrangeson! anyways, I hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catalyst; a person or thing acting as the stimulus in bringing about a result

 

One of Virgil’s clearest memories from when he was a child is if his mother, sitting in the edge of his bed, singing a lullaby. She’s wearing the same white dress that they buried her in a week ago, looking lovely beside the odd angle that her neck hangs at. The words of the song she sings are strangled and broken, cracking like her compact mirror his father had thrown against the wall during one of his fits. 

 

Virgil doesn't know what to do, so he sits in the darkness of his room, panic and confusion rising in his throat until his mother looks at him and sees his startled eyes. She falls silent, hand rubbing a steady rhythm into Virgil’s bat-patterned sheets. 

 

“I’m… s’rry” she chokes out after the silence has stretched like a highway with Virgil staring at her through the darkness. “I… l’ft you… t‘ ‘im”

 

“I’ll be okay, mom,” he whispers, fighting off the tears that have threatened to spill since he found her in the garage, hanging like a chandelier, dressed in her finest. “I can protect myself. I’m a big boy.” 

 

He’s lying, and she knows it, but she just nods, stringy blond hair falling over her face and covering the bluebell bruises that sprout around her throat. 

 

“Pr’mise me… Y’ll get out,” she look at him, pleading written on her face, and Virgil can see that she doesn't have any pupils. “Pr’mise y’ll live.” 

 

“I promise, momma,” he lets the tears fall as he sits up, reaching for her. “I promise.” 

 

Before he can touch her she smiles, and the bruises fade as she drifts away like dust in the wind, leaving Virgil with his hand stretched towards the cold, empty reality of his bedroom. 

 

_____

 

The next morning when he gets to school his friend, Alicia, sits at breakfast with a man floating over her shoulder. He’s wearing the burnt, tattered remains of a fireman's outfit, and the top of his face from the hairline to the cheek is nothing but char and melted flesh. Virgil almost loses the toast he ate that morning, but he sits down and tries not to stare at the man. This is probably just a- just some kind of trick, or maybe his imagination is running wild-

 

“Can you see me?” 

 

Virgil flinches at a sudden whisper in his ear, rough and gravely like a smoker's. Virgil can't help but look towards the voice, and he’s met with a chapped grin and the smell of melted flesh and smoke

 

“You can!” The man hovering over Alicia’s shoulder cries. “You can- you can see me! Listen, kid, I need you to do something, I need you-“ 

 

Virgil stands up, pushing away his chair with a squeal that calls the entire cafeterias eyes to him. 

 

“Virgil?” Alicia asks, eyes wide with concern. “You okay?” 

 

“Bathroom.” He mumbles before rushing off, not even bothering to grab his backpack off the floor. 

 

The bathroom is cold, empty except for the  _ plink plunk plink  _ of a leaky tap. He locks the largest stall and sits, next to the toilet, trying not to panic. 

 

“Hey, kid, there you are!” 

 

Virgil flinches as the man with the melted face appears halfway through the door. He pushes himself against the wall, desperate to put distance between himself and the nightmare in front of him. The bathroom tiles are cold and grounding against his back, and Virgil digs his fingers into the grooves of the grout as the man floats closer. 

 

“Woah, slow down there, kiddo! Listen, I just need you to-“ 

 

Virgil yelps, cutting the man off as another person floats in through a stall. This time it’s a girl clad in black, hair short and spiky and dyed bright pink. She wears ripped jean shorts and a shirt with sleeves made of netting, showing off the dripping gashes on her wrists. 

 

“Did you say this kid can see us?” She asks, cheeks stained with trailing mascara pulling up at the corner. “Hey punk, do you know my little sister? Her names Isabella, she-“ 

 

“Hey!” The man exclaims, melted face twisting with anger, “I had him first!” 

 

Virgil flinches at the man’s tone, curling in on himself until he feels like the world can't get any smaller. The two’s voice fade away as blood rushes to his ears and his breathing shallows, panic lapping at his mind like an insistent tide. Time slows as his heart beats like the flickering of a candle in the wind. He’s almost lost to this, then a hand touches his leg, and when Virgil looks up he screams. 

 

The stall has grown crowded with people, each a macabre echo of what a person should look like. There’s a man halfway through the wall with a knife sticking out of the jacket of his three-piece suit. A little girl stands in the corner, a bloody stump where her arm should be, and the one remaining hand clutching tight to a teddy bear. At his feet, a man missing half a jaw and half his body is gripping his sneaker, motioning with his hand, bloody tongue lolling out of the gaping hole where his mouth should be. 

 

A teacher finds him what feels like hours later, still screaming, tightly curled in on himself as he sobs. He thrashes against the hands that try to grab him, voices only he can hear pounding against his ears, hands only he can feel grabbing desperately at his clothes, sound and noise ripping him apart until he can't take it anymore, and lets himself fade into the darkness. 

 

Later, after he wakes up at the hospital, they tell him he had a very intense panic attack, probably due to the trauma of finding his mother’s body. He sits numbly, pretending not to see the old man floating over the doctor's shoulder. They tell him it’ll get better, they give him breathing exercises and stress balls and promises that it’ll fade soon enough. 

 

It doesn’t, though. Every corner he turns there’s someone there, begging him to pass on just one message, do just one favor. He tried to tell them he’s sorry, he can’t, because it’s far too much for one person and he’s too young to help! Some of them will drift away, some start wailing, but some of them get violent, throwing whatever is closest at his head. Virgil starts avoiding certain streets, certain houses, certain people until he can hardly stomach going outside because it’s all just too much. 

 

Every ghost is different, but they all have something in common: they’re tied to someone, something, keeping them here to haunt the living long after their story has ended. Some watch, some protect, some do their damndest to raise hell where they can. But all of them want something from Virgil.

 

When he’s in middle school, Virgil’s father dies. They found him bent around a telephone pole, bottles of whiskey shattered on the floorboard. There’s no ghost waiting for him when he gets home. Virgil knows it’s wrong, but all he can feel is relief. 

 

Bouncing from foster home to foster home isn't all that bad; he never has to settle with the same ghosts for long, and soon he learns how to hide it, how to ignore the voices and figures that appear in his vision. He stops flinching at the sight of blood; the girl floating in the hallway no longer scares him during his midnight snack runs; he doesn't bat an eye at the figure with the blown out head that lurks in the school bathroom. Soon the ghosts that haunt him become as noticed as telephone poles or picket fences; just another bit of scenery to glaze over. 

 

One day in English class his teacher writes a quote up on the board and has them discuss it as a class. Virgil’s eyes skim the words lazily, trying to seem engaged in his classmate's discussion. 

 

“Henry James hated epilogues and refused to use them in his fiction. He said that life granted us no "epilogues", so why should art or literature?” — Dan Simmons 

 

_ Life grants no epilogues  _ Virgil thinks, trying not to focus on the little girl that toddles after his teacher, auburn curls drenched in water, polka-dotted dress making puddles on the floor only Virgil could see.  _ That’s pretty rich. _

 

Life may grant no epilogues, but death is generous when it comes to final chapters.

  
  



	2. Outset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outset; the start or beginning of something

Virgil had known that  _ something  _ would be wrong with the apartment. It was pretty obvious; rent was cheap, it was hardly lived in, and the ad has said it had, quote, “a lot of character”. But he’d been hoping that something would be stuff like “it's right above the boiler room” or “ the neighbors are obnoxious”. At least those were things he could deal with, things he could complain about over coffee. Just once, Virgil would like a  _ normal  _ problem. 

 

It starts the day after he moves in. He had so few things that it took only one trip to transport everything, and from there all he had to do was set up his mattress and plug in the coffee maker. His bedroom was small, but it’s not like he needed  a lot space, just enough room to sleep. 

 

When he wakes up in the morning, he blearily starts the coffee pot and puts a poptart in the toaster, and he hardly registers the floating man with blood splattered across his shirt as he gets out his favorite mug.  _ It’s too early for this  _ is his first thought, as he holds down the flinch he’s trained himself to hide. The man hovers a few feet off the floor, and Virgil studied him from the corner of his eye as he sips his bitter coffee. 

 

Hes broad shouldered, tall, with a muscular build and reddish-brown hair that curls around his chiseled features. A prince costume hangs off his form, red sash matching the four bloody holes punched into his chest. 

 

So, his apartment is haunted. Oh, joy. Well, maybe this ghost would be chill, and just float around ignoring hi- 

 

A cupboard to Virgil’s right swings open slowly, and virgil traces it with his eyes as he takes a long sip from his mug. He doesn't even blink when sir spooks-a-lot slams it closed. 

 

His poptarts spring from the toaster, and Virgil grabs it, not showing a reaction as the lights start to flicker. 

 

The ghost groans, floating away from the light switch and over Virgil’s head, striking an overdramatic woe-is-me pose in the air. “Logan!” He calls, and Virgil groans because this dude even  _ sounds  _ obnoxiously royal. “This one is so  _ boring!” _

 

“I still do not know why you insist on harassing every tenant that chooses to live here.” Another voice answers and  _ great,  _ there's  _ two  _ ghosts haunting his apartment. Virgil sighs and sets down his half eaten excuse for a breakfast, choosing instead to shower and get ready for morning classes. 

 

By the time he’s dressed, the owner of the other voice has shown himself, and is floating over his most recent assigned book. Virgil can get a good look at him without raising suspicion, pretending to eat the remainder of his breakfast. 

 

He’s dressed like a teacher, button up shirt and sensible blue tie. Besides the handprint shaped bruises around his neck and the skin far too pale to be living, Virgil could picture this guy lecturing him about calculus or astronomy. His hair is combed back neatly, but when he moves it floats slightly, like he was swimming in water, a telltale sign that his last moments had been spent submerged.

 

“Ah,  _ The Picture of Dorian Grey _ . Good to know that fine literature has stayed appreciated.” The ghost mutters, spectral arms leaning against the counter. Once Virgil finishes the poptart he brushes through the ghost, ignoring the unpleasant tingle that runs down his spine, grabbing the book and shoving it into his bag. The ghost huffs indignantly, But Virgil can’t bother with manners when his first class starts in half an hour and he has a mile walk ahead of him. Also, he’s not going to be polite to a ghost that doesn't even know he can see it. 

 

Part of the reason Virgil had gotten this apartment was because of the convenient location. His university was a mile away, and the walk home from work was only a half a mile, which meant instead of driving he could walk wherever he needs to go. Gas was expensive, and Virgil needed every penny if he was ever going to pay off his student loans. Not to mention his philosophy professor  _ insisted  _ that the entire class buy a $400 textbook that he wrote, which meant ramen for dinner the rest of the month. At least he had the bakery. Patton always sent him home with a few extra cookies and croissants wrapped up in a little bag. Virgil didn't know how, but Patton could always tell when he was low on food money. 

 

Patton was nice like that, always looking out for people, making sure they were doing all right. Too many times to count Patton has called at just the right moment, making sure he was okay and offering Virgil his help. One day, Virgil planned on making it up to him somehow.

 

The harsh chime of his ringtone pulls him out of his thoughts as his phone starts to buzz. As he pulls out his phone, the time on the screen catches his eye. If he doesn't leave now, he’ll be late for sure! Shoving the now printed essay and the remainder of his books into his bag, Virgil is off, racing down the street. As he runs, he swipes to answer the incoming call. 

 

“Hey kiddo!” Patton’s cheerful voices filters through the speaker. “Just calling to make sure you settled in your new apartment all right!”

 

“Hey pat,” Virgil pants, dodging around the living and the dead alike, trying to avoid any unpleasant encounters. “Can't talk right now, I’m gonna be late for class. See you at work?”

 

Patton laughs, warmth radiating from his voice. “Of course, Virge. Good luck!” 

 

Virgil presses the “end call” button and shoves his phone in his bag, jogging the rest of the way to class. As his books bounce against his hip, Virgil’s thoughts bounce around his head, jumping from the unforeseen additions to his apartment to his shift at the bakery to whether he left the sink on and then  _ back  _ to his spectral roommates. It’s annoying, yes, but hopefully it will  _ just  _ be annoying, and the problem won't escalate. If it does, though, he has sixth months on the lease and then he can move again. It’ll be inconvenient, and he doubts he’ll find a apartment so close to work, but he’ll deal with it. He’s been in worse situations, and he survived then. He always has.

 

And he always will. 


	3. Elapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elapse; (of time) to pass or go by

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added chapter titles, woop! Anyways, thanks to everyone who commented, I’m pretty low on spoons lately so I didn’t reply but they warmed my heart <3

The days pass uneventfully, at least by Virgil’s standards. To anyone else, the days would be pockmarked with terror and confusion. To him, it’s a normal Tuesday.  

 

The first ghost he met, who he soon learns is named Roman, takes the most pleasure in being a complete nuisance. He’s not  _ harmful _ or  _ violent,  _ but goddamn he’s annoying. He seems to take the most pleasure in dramatic entrances; doors slam, lights flicker, and he proclaims something loudly to absolutely no one. It gets old very,  _ very  _ quickly. And whenever Virgil puts a movie on his rundown laptop, Roman will criticize his movie choice, even if he  _ likes  _ it.

 

“Doesn't this guy have  _ taste _ ?” He’ll moan, floating upside down as the original  _ Willy wonka and the chocolate factory  _ plays. “ _ Everyone  _ knows that the remake is better!” 

 

Virgil ignores him, choosing to hum along as Gene Wilder sings about imagination. It’s a rare night that he doesn't have any essays or papers due, and he intends to enjoy it before going back to caffeine filled, deadline induced stress. 

 

“I mean, come on!” The ghost continues dramatically. “Just look at the oompa-loompas!” 

 

“Roman.” The other ghost says, slightly annoyed, “are you actually complaining about the visual aesthetic of this movie?”

 

Roman shushes him loudly, but he falls silent after that.

 

_____

 

A few weeks after moving in, Virgil is finishing a paper that should have been done yesterday when he senses the presence over his shoulder. He inwardly groans, expecting more of Roman’s antics, but instead there’s just silence for a few seconds until a voice mutters next to him. 

 

“That's an interesting interpretation of the text.” The voice Virgil recognizes as Logan says quietly, “though, I have to wonder if additional reading of…”

 

The ghost continues on as Virgil types, and Virgil is silently remembering some of the books Logan mentions, because he seems to know his literature, and Virgil  _ needs  _ an A in this class. 

 

He spends an hour the next day researching the writers and philosophers that Logan mentioned, citing them in his paper. There’s actually a lot of interesting ideas, ones that go in-depth on concepts his professor mentioned. He adds at least two pages to his paper with the information gained. 

 

When his essay is handed back, a large red “A” followed by a smiley face is scrawled just above the title. 

 

_____

 

Virgil is going crazy trying to find where his headphones went. He’s searched everywhere: in his car, under his mattress, in his bag, behind the toilet, inside the fridge. They’re just gone, poof! Out of existence. He suspects the ghosts; it seems like something Roman would do to annoy him. But he hadn't boasted about how clever he was, or how good he hid the headphones, which is suspicious because Roman lives to brag. He’s about to give up, when the aforementioned ghost throws his hands in the air. 

 

“That’s it! I’m going to help him look!” The ghost says, and sure enough he begins to float around, lifting pillows and opening cabinet doors. “This is far too frustrating to watch!” 

 

Together they search every last nook and cranny, and just as Virgil is about to call it quits and buy another pair Roman lets out a triumphant yell. 

 

“Found them!” He says, floating over Virgil’s desk. The pencil jar that sits there behind to wobble, and Roman pushes it off the edge of the table with a loud  _ clang!  _

 

Sure enough, Virgil’s headphones spill out amongst the brightly colored assortment of pens and pencils. How they got  _ there _ Virgil doesn't know, but he’s glad to finally fund them. Pretending to be curious, he slowly approaches the spilled contents of the jar and picks of the headphones. He gives a fake “huh” of confusion, before shrugging and tucking the headphones into his bag. 

 

“There,” Roman says, satisfied, floating inches from his face. “Now we don't have to watch him pace about. It was beginning to grate on my nerves.”

 

“It sounds more like your growing fond of him.” Logan says from some part of the apartment. Sometimes Logan will seem to disappear, sinking into the walls in another room for an hour or two before reappearing. Whatever he does, it doesn't cause Virgil trouble, so he pays it no mind when Logan isn't to be found. 

 

“I am not!” Roman objects loudly, turning away from Virgil. “It’s simply ridiculous to think that I would be  _ growing fond  _ of anyone!” 

 

Logan hums, unconvinced. Virgil brushes the exchange off as the two just bickering, but he does have to wonder if Roman’s reason for helping was actually the truth. 

 

_____

 

It’s dark, far too dark, and Virgil feels like iron chains are strapped around his chest, tightening with each breath he takes. The nightmare he managed to rip himself out of is still replaying over in his mind, roiling and frothing like a vengeful wave out to drag him under and keep him there. 

 

_ You’re okay.  _ He whispers to himself in the unnerving silence of his room.  _ You’re okay, you're okay, your okay.  _

 

But words don't stop the visions creeping into the torn edges of his mind, demanding to be seen. He’s drowning in his fears, black liquid seeping into his lungs, stealing his breath and choking his lungs like overgrown weeds. 

 

There’s a sound from the kitchen, a slamming door and the sound of the tap switching on and off. He can't deal with their antics right now, not when he’s drowning in his own mind, not when the monsters of his dreams are grabbing at his sheets like desperate men thrown into the sea, fighting through a raging storm, drowning, drowning,  _ drowning. _

 

_ Breathe _ , he tells himself,  _ just breathe and it’ll be okay _ . He shuts his eyes tight, curls up where the bed meets the corner of the wall, and tries to quiet his mind. 

 

A thump on the cardboard box he uses for a bedside table draws his attention, and when he looks up a steaming mug is sitting there. The door shuts with a click as Virgil reaches for the cup. The gentle scent of chamomile greats him and he takes a sip, letting the warmth soak into him. 

 

_____

 

“Hey Logan, look at this!” 

 

Virgil is tapping away at his laptop when Roman shouts from the kitchen. Moments later, a loud crash resounds through the small apartment, and Virgil sighs, pulling himself up to survey the damage. 

 

When he gets to the kitchen, Roman is hovering over the ground, shattered bits of porcelain scattered in the kitchen tile. 

 

“Roman!” Logan scolds, floating in to view the mess. “Petty pranks are harmless, but destruction of property is going too far!” 

 

“I didn't mean to!” Roman exclaims. He sounds genuinely distressed. “I was trying to see if I could still juggle! And I could, by the way, I just got distracted.” 

 

Virgil shakes his head and kneels down to pick up the shattered remains of the mug, but he’s interrupted by a spectral hand scooping up the remains and depositing them in the garbage. 

 

“Sorry.” Roman whispers, low enough to escape Logan’s ears, but not Virgil’s. Than the ghost is back to his jubilant self, loudly proclaiming “there! I cleaned it up! Happy now, Microsoft nerd?”

 

Virgil doesn't acknowledge the quiet apology, but he appreciates it all the same. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who reads this, have a wonderful day!! I know this chapters kinda bad lol, but oh well! See you next chapter!


	4. Calamity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calamity; an event causing great and often sudden damage or distress; a disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: threats of violence, descriptions of violence and injury, panic attacks, guns, attempted robbery (I think that’s all but tell me if I missed something!)

It’s starts off a fairly normal day. Virgil wakes up, showers, eats breakfast, closes all the windows Roman opened which made it very cold last night,  _ thank you very much _ , and is on his way. He makes sure to leave a book out for Logan to read ( _ Two-Minute Mysteries _ by Donald J. Sobold) and a movie on for Roman ( _ the princess bride _ , a classic) before he leaves. Virgil’s found that the two ghosts are more agreeable when he leaves something out to entertain them, or else he comes home to dramatic proclamations of boredom and every window and door thrown open.

 

There’s no classes today, so Virgil heads straight for the bakery. “Bun in a million” is like a home away from home, the string lights and bean bag chairs as familiar to him as his own face. Pushing in the door brings a warm wave of delectable scents, vanilla and cinnamon and something Virgil can’t quiets put his finger in but smells like someone bottled up a warm hug. The baby blue walls are decorated with pictures and posters and framed boards painted with chalkboard paint, colourful scribbles dotting the black surfaces. Patton stands behind the counter covered in glass trays containing cakes and candies, a warm smile on his face. 

 

“Hey, kiddo!” He greets Virgil, giving him a wave. 

 

“Sup, pat?” Virgil replies, passing behind the counter to join the other man, grabbing a scone as he goes.

 

“I had the best idea last night!” Patton begins, eyes lighting up as he speaks. “What do you think about a green tea and raspberry truffle, with white chocolate?” 

 

The day continues with the two of them trading ideas, greeting customers and serving out delicious treats. Patton does most of the baking, but he can’t stay in the kitchen for two long, popping out to greet the regulars and offer free samples to the new faces. Virgil’s nearly memorized all the regular orders, and all he needs is a glance before heating up a scone or turning on the grinder.

 

He’s just finished up slicing a piece of cake when a man saunters in, radiating the confidence only assholes and theater kids can master. Still, Virgil greats him with a smile, and asks for his order. The man ponders it for a second, staring at the menu with intrigue. 

 

“Hmm… you had the ‘you mocha me crazy’ before?” He asks, than waves his hands, as if wiping away the thought. “No no no, I think I’ll get…” 

 

And then the barrel of a gun is pointed at Virgil’s head. 

 

Virgil can feel his eyes widen, and his hands begin to shake as the familiar buzz takes over his mind, static coating his thoughts like a layer of snow. He doesn't know what to do, so he freezes, a statue of frost and terror. Distantly he can hear the man demanding all the money in the register, but it’s fuzzy, like talking through a failing speaker. 

 

Whispers start to permeate through the panic that clots his mind, and only than does he notice the ghosts hanging off the man. They're whisp-like and flimsy, nearly see through but still there. They grip at the man’s clothes desperately, hanging off him like gruesome ornaments on a Christmas tree. The whispers are just enough to pull him out of his stupor and raise his shaking hands to pop open the register. 

 

But before he can move, there a blur of blue and suddenly Patton is beside him, brandishing an empty coffee pot like a sword. A coffee pot that is empty because the freshly brewed contents have been spattered on he mans chest, and he’s screaming, screaming, screaming, writhing in pain. The gun clatters to the floor as the man frantically pulls at his clothes, but before he can rid himself of the coffee-soaked garments he’s being tackled to the floor. Stan, one of their regulars that runs a pub downtown, has the man on the ground, arm twisted behind his back and pressed firmly between his shoulder blades. 

 

The sound of glass shattering brings Virgil from the daze he fell into, and he turns to see patton, hands empty as he begins to sob. The coffee pot is laying in shards on the ground, and Patton buried his face in his hands and sinks to the floor, ignoring the sharp bits of glass that surround him like a halo.

 

“It- it was the only w-way,” he sobs, shoulders heaving as tears drop down his chin and make little dark spots on his khaki pants. “I- he was, he was gonna shoot you, I s-saw it. No matter what, he was- he was gonna kill you!”

 

Virgil drops to his knees in front of the other man, ignoring the pin pricks of pain as glass shards dig into his skin. He pulls Patton close, cradling him against his chest. Virgil’s still trembling like a leaf, but he grips Patton like a lifeline as he cries, heaving breaths and sobs shaking them both. 

 

Once Patton’s sobs fade away like the gently setting sun, they both rise, still firmly holding each other but no longer at risk of ripping at the seams. The police come, and the man is led away to be dealt with. The officers seem to be going through the motions, writing down what he says with bored looks on their faces. When everything is done and the cafe has grown quiet, Virgil takes Patton by the shoulders and leads him to his apartment. Patton doesn't object, just follows along, leaning into Virgil’s touch as if just their contact will make everything better. 

 

The door to Virgil’s apartment is a welcome sight, and they practically fall through it once Virgil unlocks it. Too late he remembers the ghosts, and hopes that they’ll see he’s in no mood to listen to their antics. The book he laid out for Logan is still in its place, though it’s obviously been flipped through in his absence. His laptop had been closed and neatly set on the counter, plugged into the outlet. 

 

He leads Patton to the bathroom, and gets a pair of sweatpants and an old shirt so Patton can shower and change. He himself gets changed and readys the bed for Patton, taking a pillow and sheet into the living room for himself. 

 

“Virgil?” Patton’s voice rings through the apartment, and he can hear footsteps pad down the hallways towards him. 

 

“In here, pat!” He calls, turning around to see Patton. The sweatpants he gave him are far too long, rolled into thick cuffs around his ankles, but the shirt fits fine. 

 

“What are you doing out here?” Patton asks, seeing Virgil’s makeshift bed. He immediately looks at Virgil sternly. “Virgil, I’m not letting you sleep in here. There’s plenty of room on the bed.” 

 

“You sure?” Virgil asks, uncertainty weighing down his voice. “I just don't want you to feel awkward, or crowded, or-“ 

 

Patton waves him off, choosing to grab Virgil’s hand and pull him into the bedroom. The both fall into the bed, all the exhaustion that the day caused rushing up and pouncing like a lion on the savannah. Patton faces him, and reaches out, hesitating for a second before asking “is this okay?” Virgil nods, and Patton wraps his arms around his chest. Virgil shifts to pull him closer, and together they drift asleep, Virgil’s head perched atop Patton’s and Patton’s head tucked close to his chest, listening to the beating of his heart. 

 

_____

 

“Virgil, wake up!”

 

Virgil’s eyes shoot open as Patton’s voice pierce through the haze of his dreams. Above him sits Patton, no longer nestled against him. Instead his hands frantically shake Virgil bake to consciousness. As his eyes clear the haze of sleep, he can make out the wide eyes of Patton, the furrow of his brow, revealing the panic. 

 

“Patton? What time is it?”

 

“12:01,” he says, and begins pulling at Virgil’s hoodie. “We only have 16 more seconds get  _ up  _ Virgil!” 

 

Virgil rises, rubbing at his eyes. “What, pat?” He asks. 

 

“We need to get out!” Patton cries, “We need-“

 

Than there’s the slamming of a door, which isn't unusual for Virgil, but the blood drains from Patton’s face. 

 

“Pat?” He asks, and the other man turns to look at him with terror in his eyes. 

 

“ _ They’re here. _ ” He whispers, and only than does Virgil hear the unfamiliar voices, the out of character boot steps. And then it dawns on him, the terror of realization shooting like ice through his veins. 

 

There’s someone in his apartment.

 

He moves instinctively, adrenaline coursing through him. He tugs patton from the bed, pulling him towards the closet and opening it, pushing him in as gently as he can. He tosses in his phone, and grabs the bat that Elliot insisted he keep around for “just in case”. Well, the case is here.

 

“Virgil no-“ Patton whispers before Virgil pushes the closet door closed. He kneels down, pressing a hand against the slats that lead into the closet. 

 

“Listen pat, just stay in here, okay?” He whispers. “Call the police, stay quiet and still, try to hide under some clothes or something but  _ stay in here _ .”

 

“Promise- promise you’ll be okay?” Patton asks, and the door creaks as he sets a hand where Virgil’s is. “Promise me?”

 

“I promise.” Virgil whispers, taking a hand off the door. “I’ll be okay. I can protect myself.” 

 

Than he’s standing up, both hands gripping the bat. He stands in front of the door, checks to make sure it’s still locked, and waits. 

 

The people in his apartment don't even try to hide their presence, which only terrifies Virgil further. To be so brash only means they’re confident they could end this quickly if things were to get messy. they’re laughing, joking around like friends at a bar and not armed burglars. Virgil can hear their footsteps, doors opening and glass shattering. 

 

“We know you assholes are here!” A gruff voice calls. “We followed you home. Don’t even try to hide!”

 

The footsteps grow closer until they stop, right outside Virgil’s door. The knob jiggles, just for a second, until it still, and quiet falls around him. No more laughing, no more footsteps, just his own ragged breathing. The moment is still, time cut in granite, moon-white fear twisted with hopeful veins of relief. Virgil thinks maybe they left when a low, husky whisper cuts through the silence. 

 

“ _ You think a door is gonna stop me?” _

 

Then the noise, the voices and the footsteps resume, and his door shakes on its hinges as fists pound into it. Time resumes its course, the stone stillness dissolving like sand into Virgil’s palms. 

 

_ This is it _ , he thinks, staring at the door as it starts to splinter. He can reassure Patton all he wants, h can stand bravely with a bat gripped in hand, but the truth of the moment was this: he was standing alone, against at least two people, probably with guns. The truth of the matter was that it was very likely he ended up dead. For a second he wonders what his ghost will look like. Will it be a single bullet, over and done? Will they rough him up before they end him, leaving him bruised and bloody? Virgil shudder at the macabre thoughts, but they twist into his mind. Will he haunt Patton? His apartment? Will he join the ghosts whose presence he’s reluctantly began to enjoy?

 

The door splinters once more, valiantly standing up against the assault, before it crumpled, flying off its hinges and onto the floor. 

 

Three weasley looking men stand there, one with his foot still outstretched as if frozen mid kick. Each man holds a gun in their hand, and the one who just turned door into kindling smiles and pouts his at Virgil. 

 

“So, you’re the one boss told us to get, huh? You thought you could get away with gettin’ Johnny arrested?” The man asks, stepping into the room. Virgil holds up the bat shaking, as if the flimsy aluminum could ward off a bullet. 

 

“G-get out-“

 

“Shut up!” The man roars, pushing away the bat and pressing the barrel of the gun against Virgil’s head. “You listen to me, ya hear? Or your gonna regret it.”

 

Virgil closes his eyes, waiting for the click of the trigger, the sting of the bullet. His chest hums with horror and fear, emotions running wild as he stands as still as stone. Something in him buzzes, an insistent insect that tugs at his ribs and hums along his spine, stirring something awake. In his fear he latches onto this buzz, grabbing onto it like a thread of hope. A drowning man stuck in the sea of terror, this new emotion is a life raft in the storm, and as soon as he has ahold of it  _ something,  _ he doesn't know what, changes, hardly a ripple yet there all the same.

 

The pain never comes, no trigger pull nor bullet sting. The pressure of the barrels against his head disappears. Virgil opens his eyes, hesitant, as if the world will keep turning at any second and he will end up dead. But nothing happens. 

 

The owner of the gun is standing in front of him, jaw slack and gun hanging at his side. He’s staring at Virgil with shock etched into his face. No, Virgil realizes, not at him. 

 

He’s looking behind him. 

 

Slowly, Virgil turns, making no sudden movements st risk of startling the men with guns. He needs to see what’s struck such fear in their eyes, what’s frozen them in their spot. 

 

When he sees it, he freezes too. 

 

Two forms float in front of him, both equally horrifying. Both equally familiar. 

 

The first is surrounded by a deep blue glow, water pouring out of his too-wide mouth and too-white eyes. The bruises that circle his neck like the collar of his dark shirt stand out against his sickly pale skin. The other has blood flowing from his chest and onto the carpet, dripping like a loose faucet. A small trickle of blood leaks from his mouth as he smiles, deep and sinister.

 

“If I were you” roman says, tone even and faux-friendly, “I would leave before we make sure you can’t. Now please, don’t make me ask twice”

 

He doesn't have to ask twice, because as soon as he’s done speaking the men are gone, the spell holding them broken. As soon as their gone, Virgil feels the energy drain from him, adrenaline leaving him tired and feeble. His vision swims, he drops the bat he forgot he was holding, and his knees hit the carpet. For a second he sways, teetering on the edge of consciousness, but then he’s gone before his cheek hits the ground.


	5. Ascertain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ascertain; find out, learn, or determine, usually by making an inquiry or other effort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: panic attack, references to past child abuse 
> 
> (To be honest? I sorta hate this chapter. But I’ve been neglecting this fic and I’ve made it the best I could be, so I hope y’all enjoy ^-^ )

_ It’s another one of those nights, hunkered underneath his bed, a stuffie clutched tightly in his arms. Through the thin walls  Virgil can hear his mom and dad screaming at each other, voices raising higher and higher, his mother’s shrill screams and his fathers booming yells battling for dominance. His hands press around his ears, trying so desperately to block out the noise. _

 

_ A loud crash sounds from outside his door, voices growing closer and closer as he burrows farther and farther down under his bed. As long as he stays here, hidden and safe, he’ll be okay. The doorknob rattles and his mom's voice grows louder. He’ll be okay. The door slams open and his dads big boots come into view from under his bed. He’ll be okay.  _

 

With a gasp Virgil is ripped from the dream. He tried to sit up, but a pain in his chest stood him. Everything aches, as if he just ran a few miles after a day on the coach, and his head pounds. What he can see is blurry, but slowly comes into view as his foggy mind clears.

 

“Virgil!” 

 

He turns his head just in time to see a blur of blue lunge towards him and wrap him in his arms. Looking down, Virgil can see that Patton has latched his arms around Virgil’s waist. His hair is ruffled and messy, and the clothes Virgil had given him for pajamas were rumbled, as if he’d been wearing them for a while. Slowly Virgil sits up, meeting Patton’s embrace with a hug of his own. After a few seconds Patton looks up, tears gathering in the corners of his bright blue eyes and threatening to spill onto his freckled cheeks.

 

“Virgil I was  _ so  _ worried about you!” He says pulling away slightly but still keeping contact, as if Virgil will drift away like a balloon into the sky if he leaves him. “It’s been- you were asleep for so long, I just, i was so worried!”

 

“What happened?” Virgil starts to as ask, but he cuts himself off as the day before rushes back to him all at once. He shudders as fear grips him firmly, bony fingers caressing his heart sending ice up his spine. His lungs contract as panic takes over, raising his heartbeat to an unnatural rate. His head buzzes and he sways, dark spots gathering in his vision as he fights for air against the panic. The sheets are gripped firmly in his fists, and he finds himself unable to let go as he spirals. 

 

A warm hand is placed on his cheek, and the feeling on skin against skin is just enough to dull the panic ever so slightly. His eyes find Patton’s, blue and bright, a sea he could fall into and stay forever. 

 

“Virgil, you have to try to calm down, can you do that?” Patron whispers, rubbing a finger along his cheek comfortingly. Virgil nods, and tried to breathe like his doctor taught him so long ago. In for four seconds, hold for seven, out for eight. Repeat, repeat, repeat, until he feels less like a collection of fears and more like a person. His chest still hurts, and tears prick the corners of his eyes, but he can claim to be okay without lying. 

 

Patton’s hand still rests on his cheek, and pulls away as he sees Virgil steady. Virgil misses the contact, but he doesn't complain, just look guiltily away from Patton’s kind gaze. 

 

“Sorry.” He whispers, rubbing his thumb against his blanket. There are little wrinkles dug into it by his hands, grooves that etch his panic into a temporary sentance. 

 

“What do you mean, silly?” Patton asks, and Virgil can hear the gentle smile in his voice. “You don't have to be sorry. It’s okay. Are you alright now?” 

 

Virgil nods, turning again to face Patton. “Are… are you okay? Did- last night, what- what happened?” 

 

A miniscule grin tugs at the corner of Patton’s smile. “Well… long story short, the police came, caught the men as they ran, and arrested them. You were passed out which was  _ really scary _ -“ noticing Virgil’s guilty look, patton smile again. “-but the nice woman from the ambulance said you were should be okay, and I knew you hate hospitals so I just kept you here.”  

 

Virgil nods along as Patton speaks. He’s glad patton didn't take him to a hospital (he hardly has enough money for food, let alone an ambulance ride and treatment). And he was fine now, anyways. Feeling shaky but much better than before, Virgil started to rise from the bed. However, before he could stand Patton thrust a hand against his chest, stopping him from moving. 

 

“W-Wait!” He cried, before he seems to realize what he’d done and smiled sheepishly. “I-I mean, shouldn't you rest a while longer?” 

 

Virgil looked at Patton. “I’m fine, pat, just a little sore, that’s all. Are  _ you  _ feeling okay?” 

 

Patton laughed, but Virgil could feel the tension in him. “ what do you mean? I’m fine! Anyways, you just sit down and I’ll get you whatever you need-“ 

 

Patton was cut off as Virgil stood up, not letting anything stop him. It felt nice to stretch out his aching muscles, feel his bones crack as he stretched his arms over his head. “I told you, I’m okay Patton. Now, I’ve got some leftover takeout with my name on it, and I’m-“ 

 

“Virgil!” Patton yelled, stopping him in his place. His hand hovered only inches from the doorknob. He’d trained himself not to flinch, not to react, but still Patton yelling his name like that brought back unpleasant feelings. He turned around, and his face must have betrayed the feelings he’d worked to hide. 

 

“I- Virgil, I’m sorry I didn't mean to yell, it’s just- Well, it’s hard to explain” Patton motioned with his hand towards the bed as he sat down himself. “C’mere, let's talk.” 

 

Virgil took his place next to Patton on the bed, and Patton sighed. “Alright, I  _ don't  _ really know how to phrase this, but… have you ever noticed anything strange about your apartment?” 

 

Dread creeped into Virgil’s veins. Did Patton… know? Had the seen the ghosts the other night? Was he suspicious of Virgil? Feigning innocence, virgil shook his head no. 

 

“Okay, well… oh, I don't know how to do this. If i- Well, I mean- okay. Okay, I’m just gonna-“ he stood up from the bed, and Virgil moved to follow but Patton motioned not to. “You just stay here, alright kiddo? I’ll be right back.” 

 

Patton eased open the door and shut it gently behind him, leaving Virgil with his thought. Anxiety was pounding away like a hammer as his mind ran wild with panic. What was Patton doing? Why? Was Virgil in trouble? Was  _ Patton  _ in trouble? Anxiously, Virgil knit his hands together, fingers twisting into each other in an effort to comfort himself. 

 

The door creaked open and Patton slipped through, not closing it completely behind him. “Okay, virgil, I’m gonna show you something, and it’s gonna be scary but  _ it’s okay _ , okay? Now, I’m gonna open the door, just remember it’s totally okay.” 

 

And with that Patton opened the door, revealing…

 

“Virgil, this is Logan.” Patton said, gesturing to the ghost. 

 

Logan floated a few feet off the ground in his doorway. He looked normal, or at least normal for him; paper white skin with rivers of blue veins, a circle of bruises ringing his neck, hair that was combed back neatly despite the unnatural way it swayed like seaweed in a wave. Logan nodded in greeting, stepping (floating?) further into the room. 

 

“Hello Virgil, it’s a pleasure to properly make your acquaintance. My name is Logan Frode, and though this may be a strange experience I assure you I mean you no harm.” 

 

Virgil stares at Logan for what’s probably an uncomfortable amount of time. But what is he supposed to do? He’s been living with Logan for months now, coexisting with his and Roman’s antics. And now he was face to face with him without a warning. And also, most alarmingly,  _ Patton could see him too.  _ Which is strangely a relief. He’d whole life grown up thinking he was the only one who was plagued by the dead, but here his best friend in the world is, sharing his strange talent. 

 

Apparently he’d been silent too long, because Patton started walking towards Virgil, concern etched on his face. “Now I know this is startling, but-“

 

“No, I’m fine,” Virgil said, waving away Patton’s concern. “It’s just- patton, how long have you been able to see ghosts?” 

 

Patton stops freezes, looking at Virgil strangely. “What... do you mean?” He asks slowly. 

 

“I mean,” Virgil begins, “you can see Logan, right? So you can see ghosts too, right?” 

 

“Wait wait wait, your not surprised? And what’s do you mean by ‘too’?” Patton questions. “Hold on, can you see ghosts?!” 

 

“You can’t?” Virgil exclaims. “Than how can you see Logan?” 

 

He gestures to the ghost, who is floating silently in the doorway, looking rather misplaced in the situation. 

 

“He was just… there? He popped out of the wall with another guy, and at first I was  _ very  _ scared but I got to know them-“ 

 

“You met roman too?” Virgil asks. 

 

“You know roman?” Patton exclaims. 

 

“Perhaps _ ,”  _ Logan interjects, “we should take a step back and calm down. I believe it will help us think more rationally, and asses the confusion that seems to have arisen.

 

Virgil opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by a series of racking coughs. He paused to dig his face into the crook of his elbow, before resuming the conversation. 

 

“Okay, alright, I’m calm.” He said, turning to Patton. “So you… can’t see ghosts?”

 

“Nope! I mean, beside these ghosts-“ he motions towards Logan “-but other than that, no. You don't really seem very surprised about all this. Wait, so you can—?”

 

Patton leaves the question, and Virgil sighs, groaning inwardly. Time to come clean, spill out the secret he’d kept for years. Another wave of anxiety washes over him. What if Patton thinks he’s a freak? And what if he never wants to talk to him ever again?  _ Alright _ he coaches himself,  _ it’s like a bandaid, just gotta get it over with. _

 

“Yes.” He answers finally. “I can see… ghosts.” 

 

Logan hums in response. “Yes, I had a theory that you aware of Roman and I, but this confirms it.” 

 

“You knew?” Virgil asks, turning to the ghost. 

 

“I had suspicions. There’s was quite a lot of evidence that you were aware of us at a higher level than the previous tenants.” 

 

“So wait, you can see, like… dead people?” Patton asks. “Virgil, that must be so scary!” 

 

“It’s something, alright.” Virgil mutters, before turning his attention to Logan. “Sorry for, y’know, ignoring you guys, I guess.” 

 

“Don't be, it's completely understandable.” Logan answers. “Most people would be secretive about a talent as strange as yours.” 

 

Another cough racks Virgil’s body, and he turns away from the others for a second. “Sorry guys, I must be getting sick.” 

 

“Oh here, I’ll make you some tea!” Patton says. “I’m the meantime, do you want to meet roman? than we can all sort through this confusion together.” 

 

“Sure.” Virgil replies, standing from his seat on the bed. Another muffled cough earns a concerned glance from Patton as the three of them, man and ghost, made their way to the kitchen. 

 

Meanwhile, something that hadn't awoken in a very, very long time cracked open its eyes, and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked that!! Thank you so much, from the bottom of my heart, to all who commented!! You’re all wonderful, thank you for reading!!

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, have a great day!


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